


The Silver Whistle

by mock turtle (mturtle)



Category: Fairy Tales and Related Fandoms
Genre: Bluebeard - Freeform, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-20
Updated: 2010-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-13 20:02:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/141229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mturtle/pseuds/mock%20turtle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sister Anne makes her choice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Silver Whistle

**Author's Note:**

  * For [parsnips (trifles)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/trifles/gifts).



> Many thanks to my wonderful beta Allua!

“I mean you no harm, mistress Anne,” he says. “And though you may find it hard to believe, I mean your sister no harm either. But alas, the duties that one has to perform are often unpleasant, so it cannot be helped”.  
I stand at the top of the short staircase in the library, clutching the little silver whistle our brothers gave Ariadne before her wedding. Even after the horrors of that little room at the end of the hallway, this man still does not look like a monster to me. He has not yet drawn his sword, and his voice is calm and pleasant as usual – calm, as if we were exchanging pleasantries instead of discussing my sister’s impending murder.  
“Choose wisely,” he says now, smiling slightly. “For I have made the wrong choice yet again, and see how much grief it has brought me. How I wish now I had asked for your hand in marriage – you, with your practical mind, would not have disobeyed me, I think.”  
“But there is still time to correct that error I have made. Become my bride, Anne, and we will put this whole unpleasant business behind us.”  
I feel as if I cannot move, my feet frozen to the ground, my hands sore, my heart pounding. I should summon my brothers at once, and yet, I hesitate.

I remember last night, Ariadne’s terrified eyes as she clutched the little key to her chest, much as I do the whistle now. I had given her spiced wine and did my best to keep the servants from her chamber, lest they see her in this state. I had reasoned with her, pleaded, begged, but she would not be calmed.  
“Calm yourself and act as if nothing has happened, or you will be the death of us both!” I had hissed finally and slammed the door.  
Now I think that I was much shaken myself – understandable, considering what we have just discovered, but foolish all the same. I should have stayed with the little goose, shouldn’t have let her work herself into such a frenzy over the course of the night. Naturally, it had been obvious to Bluebeard the moment he had seen her that his orders have been disobeyed.  
Of course, I may be underestimating the man – he might never have left, he might have spies at the castle, he might be a wizard for all I know – now I am sure I recall seeing that slight menacing smile on his face even as I came down to greet him and tell him my sister is unwell.

I remember the dank little room, Ariadne’s stifled scream when she saw them.  
A hundred times I regretted my foolish action – better for that key to be lying safely up in my room! And a hundred times I felt a tiny spark of glee at the thought of her disobeying him, displeasing him.  
A hundred times I had told her that little door is a trap, a test, but she only tossed her beautiful golden hair and laughed.  
“I am pretty, he loves me, so what if I don’t follow his every whim? There may be beautiful things in that room, treasures even you can’t imagine, my boring Anne.”  
Well, they were certainly beautiful, or had once been – that much you could tell, even now. There was no blood – Bluebeard must be familiar with dark magic for sure, for there they were, all six of them, pale and calm, as if sleeping, looking no more dead than Ariadne, lying on the floor in a faint.  
As if in a trance, I had walked closer to them, my eyes roaming their faces, stopping at the thin red line crossing their throats.  
So this was Bluebeard’s greatest treasure.

I remember the evening he left. He had stayed shut up with Ariadne in their apartments, giving her instructions for the duration of his journey, and I had not seen him for the better half of the day.  
I had loitered about the great hall, wishing for a chance at I know not what, but when I saw him, already in his travelling clothes, I understood.  
“Well, mistress Anne,” he said, half-cheerfully, half-sadly, “Business commands me to leave your most pleasant company. But I will return soon, and I dearly hope that I will find you here when I come back.”  
I murmured something appropriate without really thinking, because suddenly I felt so sad that I feared I might cry.  
“You do not know how happy it makes me to see that you are sad because of my departure,” he said, and my heart leaped, but there was more. “My wife is young and inexperienced, and she will need help. I have given her all the instructions and all the keys – but one.”  
“This one, I want you to keep for me. It opens a door behind which lies my greatest treasure, a door which should never be opened, and I hope you will obey my orders in this. Ariadne is but a child – her curiosity may get the better of her, but your judgment I trust.”  
“I hope you will guide Ariadne and keep her out of mischief,” he said.  
And then he bent down and kissed my fingers, the gesture somehow more intimate than the most passionate kiss.

I remember the wedding night, Ariadne’s face scared but flushed with pleasure and curiosity. How pretty she had looked in her golden dress! Her beauty was so radiant, it seemed to make even Bluebeard handsome… or had his sharp mind and charming manner started to deceive my mind? The guests were getting drunk and rowdy, and I had a mind to retire the moment Ariadne was led to her chamber, when one of the gentlemen suddenly asked, brave with wine,  
“And where are the former mistresses of this estate, eh? A lovely wedding night your new wife shall have, with the ghosts of her predecessors crowding around the bed!”  
I could feel the guests freeze in their places, no one daring to move for fear of bringing his fury on their heads. But Bluebeard only smiled sadly.  
“Fate has chosen to take them from me – and make no mistake, I loved each of them dearly. But now I have been rewarded with the fairest one of all, and to that we must drink!”  
“How I wish I was the one at the altar,” Charles had whispered into my ear in the garden that night. That had made me smile – still – but all I answered was, “We must not be seen,” as I nearly ran toward the brightly lit room where my sister’s new husband was holding court.

I remember the day he had asked our father for Ariadne’s hand. I should have known by the look in her eyes, by her happy flush when our maid told us he had arrived, that they had already come to an agreement, but I was too naïve – or maybe I just didn’t want to see.  
I was the older daughter – it was only fair that I should marry first. And yet, as we huddled in the balcony, silently jostling for a better vantage point, I heard him say Ariadne’s name.  
That was the moment my fate was decided. Would I be mistress of my own estate or married off to some country baron, forever forced to dig around in the summer garden and darn old stockings in winter? I have always been a practical girl – a trait that my mother had often scolded me for, when she was alive – and I harbored no delusions of marrying for love. No, my poor Charles, his family’s castle as dilapidated as ours and his peasants as poverty-stricken – would never be allowed to marry me. And would I marry at all? Who would want a girl with no dowry? I might be forced to live with Ariadne, a poor relation, unassuming virgin aunt forced to look after the children she bears her lord.  
“Isn’t it grand, Anne?” she whispered to me, not bothering to conceal her glee. “I will be the richest lady for miles around! And you – you can marry your Charles – imagine how terrible it would be if you had to give him up!”  
I looked at them – my father, hardly daring to believe his luck, Ariadne, her face smug as a cat’s, Bluebeard, looking suitably humble – and I hated them all.

I remember the week at his country house, a week of hunting and feasts and pleasant conversations. We did not retire to our rooms until the sky turned pink, and I do not remember a time when I laughed more. Bluebeard was equally gracious to all his guests, no matter what their social standing, and Ariadne and I soon forgot about our outdated dresses and lack of jewels.  
His house was indeed full of precious things, although there were no golden floors. The long gallery with its exquisite paintings was the place I admired most, as well as the library filled with more volumes than one could ever hope to read.  
The way he spoke to me, though sometimes condescending, was always pleasant, and he was even as indulgent as to listen to my views on all manner of subjects. Though I had not been properly schooled, I had a sharp thirst for knowledge, and every conversation with this man was a feast.  
“You certainly have a mind that far surpasses the ordinary female’s,” he said once.  
I was at loss, not sure if he had complimented me or called me a bluestocking.  
“Do not take offence, mistress Anne,” he laughed. “A wise wife is the greatest treasure, as the saying goes.”  
The words were out of my mouth before I could stop myself.  
“Bluebeard and Bluestocking – what a fabulous alliance we would make!”  
“And bold, I see,” he smiled, as I blushed, mortified at what I had let slip. “That is very pleasing in this age when a maiden says only what she has been taught to say.”  
The next day, when we were leaving, I confided to Ariadne that I found our host very charming.  
“You are right,” she had laughed. “When one sees all the jewels and tapestries and beautiful things he has, one starts to think that Bluebeard’s beard is not so blue after all.”

I remember the day we had finally met him, after all the stories, the rumors – his peasants are afraid of him, as is the local gentry. He has had at least three wives, some say more – some say six, even, and some – that he has a harem akin to the ones of the Sultans in the far South. He is rich as Croesus, the floors of his palace are solid gold and all the doors are ebony, like those of King Solomon’s temple. He is an alchemist, he is a wizard, he has made a pact with the devil. His beard is blue, and his feet end in hooves. The rumors had circulated for as long as I remember – the gentleman was first married well before I was born – and came to a fevered pitch every time he arrived to his country seat, but no man was brave enough to repeat them to his face.  
Bluebeard, they called him. He came from the South, a place its inhabitants consider the pinnacle of civilization and all the others wild and uncouth. He was not lame, or marked, or otherwise disfigured – in short, he bore no trademark traits of one in league with the devil. He shaved his chin, in the manner of all our well-born gentlemen, but his beard was so black it lent his face a bluish cast even when sheared off. He had a wild shock of black hair, uncovered by a fashionable wig, but he was well-built and his face was not altogether unpleasant.  
He talked of the crop with my father and discussed the war with my brothers. He wove delicate compliments for us into the conversation. He graced our table with better wines than we have ever tasted. And he smiled at me and Ariadne equally – that much I remember well.

I remember that night, when, as if in a trance, I walked up to Ariadne’s rooms and handed her the little golden key. She was the mistress of the house, wasn’t she? It was only right. He had chosen her for his wife, and she should bear the responsibilities as well as the pleasures.  
“And you,” he says now, “you, Anne, with your sharp mind, you can make much better use of my riches than she. Think of it: your father’s fate assured, and posts in the army for your brave brothers – captains commissions, perhaps?”  
“And I would love you, Anne, that I swear. You would not disobey me, and I would love you till death do us part.”  
I remember Ariadne’s radiant face, his smile, the sharp pain as I dug my nails into my palms to keep from crying.  
“You chose her first,” I say, and blow the whistle.


End file.
